What Is and Will Always Be
by 1boo
Summary: Sam breaks some rules, makes up some of his own, and proves that he is damn good at backseat driving. PWP, wincest.


A sort of present for a friend. Porn helps bad days get less shitty.

* * *

"Jesus Christ, Dean," Sam whines from the passenger seat, "would you get your cock out already?"

"Oh wow," says Dean, eyes squarely on the road, "That is so incredibly unsexy." And yeah, it is. Sam can actually use that nagging, pissy tone to _ask Dean to get his cock out_. Incredible.

The problem is, it's so unsexy and so _Sam_ that it does this strange, dreamy about-face somewhere in the recesses of Dean's brain that finds Dean, as always, vaguely bewildered and sporting a stiff boner.

Someday Dean will figure out for sure whether or not Sam is actually horrifically manipulative. He has the feeling the rest of the world already knows.

He can see out of the corner of his eye that Sam's got his own dick out, has done for the last couple minutes, and has been wanting to for a while if the drumming fingers for the last mile of country roads mean anything. Thing is, the last mile of country roads has also been lined with motherfucking gravel. There is no way Dean is pulling the Impala over on that sort of loose gravel, not with her undercarriage as vulnerable as it is. Not even if Sam has started pulling lightly at the tip of his cock, making frustrated noises through his teeth.

"Rules, Sammy," Dean grits out, squinting down the road for a nice, grassy shoulder. Not too muddy though. Don't want the wheels sinking in. And yeah, Dean knows he was the one who suggested this in the first place, the one who said, casual-like over the gear shift, "Hey Sammy, you wanna kill some time?", but that was before the road got all gravelly around the edges.

If anyone can project an eye-roll through an entire car, it's Sam. He tugs a little harder on his cock, a little slower, dragging his foreskin. Dean can picture it too well; not looking is not working. His balls tighten, tingle, and he blurts a little precome into his boxers. He squirms his hips, feels like Sam _knows,_ somehow. Dean's not sure what's left for Sam to find out. Maybe the fact that Dean's pretty sure he'd be able to come, untouched, from Sam fucking Dean's mouth and finally, when he's close, slapping Dean across the face.

There may have been dreams.

But you know, sex. Jerking off together, jerking each other off. That's old territory at this point. Practically boring. Right.

Dean pulls over in a spray of gravel.

"Hands off until she's in park, Sammy," Dean says, even though Sam is swearing from having his forehead flung into the window, and is making no move to touch himself. He's still hard though, despite some possible bruising on his skull, cock thick and bobbing between his legs.

"Fuck, Dean," Sam whines, clutching his head.

"You're not bleeding, bitch," Dean says, scooting back in his seat and spreading his legs, knees either side of the steering wheel. He scrambles for his fly, fingers just this side of clumsy.

"Dean," Sam says, only it's not his bitching voice, but it's not a, fuck, Dean doesn't know, not a like _breathy moan of sex_ or anything. It's dark and soft and quicksilver, and yeah, Sammy is probably horribly manipulative. Dean prefers to remain blind.

Sam's leaning closer, and one of his hands has taken Dean's away from his crotch, pants still unopened. How the fuck Sam can pull off looking dark and sexy and – okay – kind of intimidating with his dick hanging out of his jeans Dean doesn't know.

"'Hands off 'till the car's in park', huh, Dean? You really like those rules, don't you?" Sam says, real low and real slow.

"They keep your ass in line," Dean rasps, cracking a grin. He looks at where his wrist has been carefully pinned against his hip. Sam follows his gaze, raises an eyebrow.

"Mm," says Sam. "I'm sure they're just for me, Dean. I'm sure you don't like them at _all_."

"Free spirit, me," Dean coughs out. He's getting kind of worried about the sarcasm levels in this conversation.

Sam works his jaw, just for a second, works himself up into something. Or maybe works himself into letting something out that's always been there to begin with. Strong fingers wrap in Dean's jacket and Sam jerks him forward, towards the crush of Sam's body, and forces him to straddle the gearshift, arch his back on the seat. Sam straddles him, his dick in Dean's face. The rest of Sam is bent along the ceiling of the Impala, his arms planted firmly on the seat.

Dean's gaze falls on the tremble-stretch of muscle in Sam' arms which cage Dean's head on either side.

"One rule for you, then, Dean," whispers Sam, hips rolling. The head of his swollen cock leaves a smear of precome across Dean's cheekbone, where the skin is smooth and Sam won't hit stubble. Dean holds very, very still, eyes wide.

"Don't choke," Sam says, voice deep and wrecked, and Dean opens his mouth to retort, but well, he should have known how that would end, really. That's one of those things absolutely everyone should expect; when your baby brother has his hard cock in your face and tells you not to choke, there's pretty much one outcome if you open your stupid mouth. Dean knows this. He does. But he opens his stupid mouth.

It's like rock-paper-scissors, he can't help it, and then he's got a mouth full of Sam's cock, hot soft skin on his tongue, sharp scent. He sucks, quick, in case Sam is planning on pulling out anytime soon. Make it good, make it good fast, don't let him get bored. Then Sam thrusts and it hits the back of Dean's throat, out again with the tiniest scrape of teeth because this isn't actually new, Dean knows how to suck, but he's only really, really enjoyed it with Sam. He's memorized what Sam likes, remembered it all through those awful years of Stanford, has refined it since.

But this is Sam with some barrier torn down, with something a little loose, but it's simply allowed Sam to take control, to push Dean out of the driver's seat. For a second there's a hand at this throat, and it's enough to stop him worrying about making it good, pushes his mind until he is blank and buzzing, delirious white noise.

He's pinned and that shouldn't be good, except it means he doesn't have to think, he doesn't have to plan, his eyes are off the goddamn road. Dean's slobbering and his eyes are tearing, his body's reaction to the cock slamming down his throat, and through the haze he can blink them open for a few seconds at a time, see Sam's face, the way he grits his teeth and narrows those pretty, slanted eyes, the way Sam wants and wants like an endless pit and somehow he what he wants is Dean. His cock slams in, smooth and wide. Dean's lips tingle and burn. Dean doesn't have to worry that Sam's not getting something good here because Sam's just taking, thank fuck, and Dean leans back, cracks his jaw wider, breathes when he can.

Dean feels like…feels like—nothing. In a good way; like radio static, like forgetting everything before he sleeps. Like screaming and not caring who hears. His cock leaks more precome, strains against his jeans. Spit mixes with Sam's precome in his mouth; God, he can feel it in the back of his throat. Then Sam's cock slides and he tastes it like a burst on his tongue. Saliva dribbles down the corners of his mouth and he doesn't try to wipe it, doesn't even think to. He doesn't want to move his hands from where Sam put them.

Sam's face though, god, Sam's face is maybe better than his cock. He looks like he's bit down on bliss by the skin of his teeth, and now that he's got a taste he wants to gobble it whole.

Sam notices Dean's eyes are open, pauses in his frantic rhythm to draw his cock out slowly, Dean wheezing through his nose, eyes still on Sammy arched above him. Time shivers; for a moment the roar in his ears clears and he can hear cicadas outside the car, thinks he can hear the sound of their lungs expanding as they hold their breaths. This is suffocation. This is freedom. This is holding still so his brother can fuck his mouth on the side of an American country road. This is religion. Sam burns above him.

Suddenly Sam cries out and Dean's face is jammed against soft, warm skin, damp with sweat and his throat is burning, flinching around Sam's hard cock. Heat spills down his throat, floods his mouth. Nails tear at the back of his neck, big hands cradling and bruising. Sam shouts and it is all Dean hears. He's not breathing; slick heat is coating his throat and dribbling down his chin and he's desperate, wants to beg, needs to come but can't, can't. It's building up inside him with nowhere to go, but he's lost and needs and he opens his eyes to see Sam's, his changelings eyes, his hazel eyes, level on Deans, hotter than saltfire.

"Come," Sam says, and fists his hand in the hair on Dean's crown and yanks his head back.

Dean shatters in Sam's hands. Sam stares, heavy-lidded, as Dean writhes in his grip, shoots into his boxers again and again until he thinks it will never end, and it does, but only once his breath is hitching on a sob every time a fresh dribble of come forces itself out of him. He comes himself fucking dry and still there are aftershocks, pain-sweet and devastating. He's wet, soaked, his thighs and cock and balls smeared with his own come, and hell, it's seeped through his jeans, a dark stain that draws Sam's eyes.

Above him, Sam still stares like he's seen the rapture. Dean's a mess, skin flushed red where Sam's tan hides it, but Sam's cheeks are red like he's been punched and his eyes are liquid, otherworldly, like he can see the whole universe but doesn't care for any of it, would throw every tangled and beautiful and precious thing into infinite roaring blackness, would snuff out the stars with a twitch of his lips, all of it gone and laid to waste, except for Dean.

Then he blinks, and he's Sam, whiny kid brother. Sam strips off his shirt, tugs at Dean's, and all Dean can manage is to not fight it as Sam pulls his off as well. Sam sighs happily as their skin presses together, hot and soft and soothing. There's comfort in knowing Sam's scars so intimately, their ribcages brushed up together.

With a bit of tugging Sam manages to manhandle both of them into the back seat, which, even if the Impala is roughly the size of a small yacht, is still too tiny for two grown men over six feet to lay down on. Somehow, though, they manage, skin on skin, faces in each other's hair, to tangle together like they always do.

They listen to the engine tick down and the cicadas by the roadside and don't notice that their breaths are perfectly matched, because it has always been this way.


End file.
